


nothing comes of spring

by sirnando



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: He found him in a field. Kavinsky's hands tugging on a tuft of grass gently, careful to not pull the roots out. Ironic, Ronan remembered thinking, considering he was suffocating the blades of grass crushed under his body.





	nothing comes of spring

He found him in a field. Kavinsky's hands tugging on a tuft of grass gently, careful to not pull the roots out. Ironic, Ronan remembered thinking, considering he was suffocating the blades of grass crushed under his body.

Ronan hadn't acknowledged him. Had simply lied down beside Kavinsky, in his own private patch an arm's length away. It was public property, it was fucking allowed, he'd reasoned. There were no strings attached to the choice. Kavinsky seemed to share the logic because he did nothing in response. No flinch, no breathy _fuck_ , no indication that he was prepared to run off. All indicating that his eyes were shut under the hideous shades.

It should have been expected, but he still stiffened when he felt Kavinsky shift beside him after a time, the grass whispering quietly, gasping for air as he rose to a seated position. Ronan had watched the movements with squinted lids, careful to stay focused on K's tattered arms and stained wifebeater. Avoid his eyes.

Kavinsky had sighed somewhere in between his motions and him pressing a fingertip into Ronan's bicep. Hard enough for a white shadow to be left behind when he released the pressure. And then: nothing. Nothing of what Ronan had expected because the bubble had been popped but Kavinsky seemed to be uninterested in entering inside. He just sat with his shades pulled up and his head thrown back, absorbing the sun. 

"Why do you do this?" the question wasn't as surprising to Ronan as was the fact that Joseph Kavinsky had composed a sentence which lacked cursing. 

But he did not have an answer. For him, nor for himself because it was mainly undefined impulse that dragged him to this field. That dragged him the countless times before, even though each time he went with the notion that nothing would blossom out of the encounter. Only silence and him leaving.

Kavinsky was unsatisfied with the response, but drained of further questions to ask. The wind whistled behind him and a foreign hand was gripping his forearm, lifting it up so Ronan's other palm could press theirs together, right over the strip of grass separating them.

Ronan's fingers curling was calculated, Kavinsky's was instinctual. A gasp for something long awaited. One pale fist made up of nicks and scars and dirty fingernails.

Ronan was not sure what Kavinsky's eyes were searing into because he still refused to meet them. Instead, he concentrated on the fist, focus adapting as he moved it towards him. He kissed right in the middle of the back of Kavinsky's hand. Elongated and left it hovering over his mouth even after his lips had pulled away and before he let go completely, rose to leave.

Kavinsky had mumbled Please behind him, or maybe it had been the wind's imitation because Ronan never knew him to be the pleading type.

And then it was fireworks and a broken boy in front of him who disappeared for an eternity before Ronan had the chance to return the goodbye.

The moment replayed in his head afterwards. At night, during the day and screamed at him while he lay in the field, the ghost of guilt beside.


End file.
